The Emperor’s Angel of Death

　　 He has a bad memory.

　　Sometimes, memories come uninvited, and at the worst, he doesn’t know who his last name or first name is.

　　 Sometimes, after a brief period of numbness, he would suddenly remember that he was Rozim Premki.

　　 From the time he was born in the sunshine of this world, he was Rozim Premki.

　　 He doesn't remember when that happened. It should have been a long time ago. It is longer than the lives of quite a few mortals...

　　 Whenever he thinks of this, he thinks of fire.

　　 He likes fire, and he likes the creaking and cracking sound they make when burning objects.

　　 He can still smell the leather on his shoulders, although the animal skins are also covered on his shoulders, but they smell like ashes.

　　 Compared with the self in the memory, his shoulders have also changed a lot-they are twice as big.

　　 If he returns to his home now, he looks like a monster.

　　 If I could see my two brothers again, I would probably be able to scare their souls out.

　　Who are they?

　　Who is the brother?

　　 He is also not sure, maybe they are already dead, or maybe they are just a dream.

　　 He sometimes dreamed of fire—the way they glowed.

　　 So all of this may be a dream!

　　 He looked down at the job at hand, and he couldn't be more familiar with it, because he was very good at it.

　　 When working, he neither dreams nor forgets things, nor does he miss the smell of alcohol. He just knows "work".

　　 It helps to cheer up and concentrate.

　　 He tossed this pot made of heavy metal up and down.

　　 It is very heavy, like a big rock, it looks heavy even in his huge palm.

　　 He can't remember its ingredients, what's it called?

　　 He could say it before, but he can't remember it now.

　　 is not iron, not stone, and nothing else.

　　 He just called it "the pot", and everyone else knew what he meant.

　　 This is his plan.

　　 He took a deep breath, picked up the pot and put it in the huge stove, turning the fire to the highest intensity.

　　 Then he began to grease the surface of the pot with a thick layer to make it easier to use.

　　 It took him a long time to do this, and once it even took two days to be perfect.

　　 He likes to look at the smooth pot against the fire. It is as smooth and soft as the skin, not like his own skin, but like the skin of girls.

　　 is like the skin of those girls in his impression——

　　 What is that like?

who cares.

　　 Then he picked up the spice box and started to work.

It would take a lot of time, sometimes even days, but he really didn’t notice it, because he had to concentrate, and there was no sun or moon in this place-only fire and heat, people came. Walk around.

　　They never look at themselves, unless they want to give him a prepared ingredient or take away the prepared portion.

　　 He doesn't look at them often because he is very happy at work.

　　Only at this time can he temporarily get rid of his craving for alcohol.

　　 Various seasonings from different regions are mixed in his box. This is his unique memory. He called it a gal, which sounds like a green-skin thing.

　　 Okay, in fact, he thinks there is nothing wrong with green leather stuff, at least those **** are more reliable than these extremely stupid servants.

　　 He bent down so hard that his eyes were almost on it, and then poured the milligram-accurate seasoning into the mixing box.

　　 Well, this smells really comfortable.

　　 It reminded himself that he was working now, and he never went back homesick and fire while working.

　　 If this step goes wrong, it must be restarted, but due to long-term drifting, there is not much material left.

　　 So he can't make any mistakes, even if there is only one, even the tiniest point, the flavor of the spices will be weakened.

　　 Once he failed, he beat everyone in the kitchen, including the machine servant.

　　 But his thoughts drifted away again.

　　If there is no failure, if he becomes the existence he wants to be, he does not want the first meal to be flawed.

　　 He thinks of the winners, hoping that this dinner will be perfect enough, even though he will never be able to eat it like he expected long ago.

　　 Thinking about it, he continued to work again, following the ancient recipes, drawing sacred patterns in the pot.

　　 After the liquid in the pot boiled, he used those secret spices.

　　 When the smelly powder fell into the pot, the boiling liquid hissed like a snake.

　　 He must also be cautious in this step. Putting too much of the whole pot will cause it to be scrapped, and too little will not be outstanding enough.

　　 He urged his hands and feet to be sharper, shaking off the spice to half before stirring to the twentieth lap.

　　 Soon, the boiling liquid turned into tumbling slime, and he lifted the pot from the stove with his large gloved hands.

　　 He took out a plate and used a spoon to make a ball.

　　 Watching the dark brown liquid flowing along the edge of the plate, sometimes he would lift it up and turn it toward the fire, admiring everything he had made.

　　 nodded, he picked up a cloth and gently wiped the stain on the edge of the plate.

　　 then walked to a machine servant, who was controlling a cart, he put the dish on the cart, and then went to take the second dish.

　　 Other subordinates are also busy, each operating their own dishes, but none of them is more important than his work, so he can only do it himself.

　　 This makes him proud.

　　Because he will feel that he has become useful, most of the time is enough to wipe out his heart disease.

　　 Most of the time, he served in the canteen of the Astartes

　　 He often sees those tall warriors, enjoying his food after removing the armor, and complimenting him.

　　 But in any case, he should leave in the end.

　　 He also knew that he had to leave, but he always wanted to stay a little longer, and always wanted to stay with these great fighters a little longer.

　　 After all, he was so close to greatness--

　　 This is his heart disease.

　　 When seeing those ignorant boys coming from the academy to the temporary trial base, he recalled the tests he had taken and how close he was to success.

　　 He recalled how they strengthened their bodies, and recalled the pain in the heart when they failed.

　　 Although he was bound to die, he still survived.

　　As a failed product~www.wuxiaspot.com~ how much he wanted to die, I hope they gave up on themselves.

　　 Jipu Wuhun's eyes looked at him, and he filled the last disc, then nodded, just click.

　　 Then the servant took his eyes away from him, pushed the cart and left, while the others were still busy.

　　 He returned to the stove, and the assistant gave him a new pot, a pot for cooking.

　　 He looked down at the job at hand, and he couldn't be more familiar with it, because he was very good at it.

　　 When working, he neither dreams nor forgets things, he just knows "work".

　　 Simple, serious work.

　　 But sometimes he still has concerns, sometimes he can't sleep through the night, or thinks back about things he doesn't want to remember.

　　 But he also has a dream he likes.

　　 He once saw the Astartes walking in the sea of ​​stars, saw them fighting, and saw them standing firm.

　　 I was among them, just as they were wearing, flawless.

　　 When he wakes up from his dream, he is always satisfied.

　　 But he still remembers his failures, but he also remembers the strength to give himself.

　　 Maybe this is his reward: you can give your own strength.

　　 Even in the eyes of others, he sometimes looks like a fool.

　　 But he doesn't know how long he will be here, maybe forever, maybe to the end of the world.

　　 He has a bad memory.

　　His name is Rozim Premki and he likes fire.

　　 He wanted him to fight, which was what he had dreamed of.

　　 But the Astartes are fighting, and he assists them, sometimes he feels, maybe—

　　 This is enough.